Reader check-in: welcome readers & rr's! >>> This is a dual-POV story. Dreams weren't real, like the sun that burned my scalp and corneas. I needed my brain shut off, not itchy, grating sand wedged in every crack of my body and dried out skin from briny ocean salt. My gray matter wiped clean was better, but those brain cells were essential for college. I was past all this… I fixed it, and it went away. Gone, but not forgotten. Two years with no trigger. Why now? Nothing here answered that question. More importantly, nothing among the infinite grains of sand fixed my invisible walls of self-preservation. An ant under a magnifying glass, I squinted under the glaring UV rays. Blinding myself wouldn't shut off the inflood of reminders. The prick of pain in my eyes wasn't enough to quell the buzz of overstimulation in my brain. It sizzled as if I splattered it onto the asphalt beneath my feet. College, Ellie. College was the solution, the broom that swept away this resurfacing bullshit. But until I could get there, I was stuck. Stuck in my life –stuck in my brain– as much as I was physically stuck in this parking lot, where my hair draped a heating pad over my back and shoulders. A few hot strands tickled my forehead with a breeze. I tucked them behind my ears and lifted my eyes for a seagull check. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me." "Pfft, suck it up." A feminine laugh filled my ears, vibrating the back of my neck. Hands grabbed my waist and pushed me away from her car. "It'll be fun." To her credit, Harper hadn't said a word about my nightmare, but behind her sunglasses, her look screamed 'we will discuss it.' It wasn't that I had a nightmare; I had the nightmare. Two years of defensive walls crumbled when I woke up, sweat-soaked, my heart pounding, and my mind reeling. Why I had it rattled me as much as the nightmare itself. Last time, I needed fifteen months to remove it from my brain and I was damned determined not to go that recovery route again. For sure, I needed a distraction. But not this particular one. Ugh, the beach. Us here was as much my fault as Harper's punishment, err, solution. Uncertainty stirred in my stomach. The beach would not make me feel better. In lieu of talking, this was her 'fun osmosis.' Scavenging seagulls that soared above with cawed threats to shit on us? No, thank you. Don't get me started on jellyfish and sharks. Or worse, surfer boys. "Stop overthinking about boys and sharks." She grabbed her bag from the back seat. "It's written all over your face." The far-off crash of waves washed out my grumbles. As any boy's 'shrinkage' could confirm, those blue waters of deception were ice cold. There were so many preferable alternatives to water frolicking among girls in skimpy bikinis and skin-peeling dad bods. Pluck my eyelashes out one at a time. Adopt a rabid raccoon. Attempt goat yoga. Go on a date. I couldn't deny that NorCal was picturesque from every angle. Dry, cool breezes kissed my cheeks. In hours, the sunset would paint ribbons of vivid colors across the sky and tint the water aquamarine. My Achilles heel of fast food – the warm, cinnamon-sugar fried goodness of churros – was overpowered by the smell of fried foods, questionably sourced hot dogs, popcorn, and ocean salt. Remote screams from the roller coasters sandwiched the white sands against the melodic, metronome of waves crashing on the shore. "No." I scowled at all of it. "No way. I'll nap in the car, Harper." I didn't hate the outdoors. Being surrounded by the quiet, natural beauty of the majestic Redwoods? Sign me up. Losing all sense of time and self in a book? Even better. "Harper." My whine lowered her glasses an inch. By the stubborn look in her eyes and the beep of her locked doors, whining was mandatory. "I hate the beach." Her gazelle legs strode across the sand. "How can you love reading, but not enjoy doing it here?" I gasped. Sand lodged in the cracks of my books was almost as offensive as it was in any of mine. Moisture pricked my armpits and behind my knees. How was I already sweating? "Two words: sand and melanoma. What are you plotting, Harper?" "Again, stop overthinking," she said over her shoulder. "You asked for a diversion? This is one, trust me." Trust me, she says. I trust her. Why would she think I don't? My ankles wobbled as I kicked sand into the cuffs of my jeans. Friction itched my skin as if rubbed by fine-grained sandpaper. I stumbled and almost face-planted. Twice. Perspiration beaded my hairline as I squinted ahead. Families built sandcastles near that cold water's edge, footballs and volleyballs were tossed, and groups of girls giggled at any and all eye candy in board shorts and banana-peeled wetsuits. Harper's sun-kissed blonde hair, sky-blue eyes, and legs for miles completed the beach's poster. And yet, I couldn't engage in any of it. Maybe that was Harper's point, find something so not me, that I couldn't think about being me. "Do I need to state the obvious?" "You mean how you haven't shaved or waxed, ever?" Harper smirked and dropped her bag with a thud. "I almost took you to the salon for some Amazonian machete ladyscaping, except that would be a wasted effort." Ladyscaping. I narrowed my eyes. "And how would that make me feel better?" "Brazilians hurt like a bitch." She shrugged as a slight breeze tossed her hair. "Would've been a good distraction. Who knows, maybe we can-" "No." I crossed my arms. "Halt all boy-related trains of thought at 'not a chance' station." Her lips pursed, and she shifted her gaze, then exhaled a loud, frustrated sigh at the cluster of boys near the waterline. "Fuck, I didn't know Jake was here. Now I need a diversion." I shaded my eyes at his half-dressed, tall, broad-shouldered, muscular body. A six-pack was wasted on my brother. Never far from football, he sprinted around with his teammates. Even barefoot in the sand, Jake was a freaking olive-skinned racehorse. Some days – fine most – I had no idea how we were related. Our differences were beyond obvious. All we had to do was stand next to each other. Every day served me reminders that we were nothing alike. His confidence, my introversion. His charisma, my self-deprecation. He demanded respect; I existed in my quiet content. His participation, my observations. "From this far away," Harper's voice pulled my gaze to her scowl. "He doesn't look like a complete asshole. But fuck him. We're here to have fun." "Drowning fun?" My knees buckled, so I sat with a huff. "Or puking my guts fun?" "You won't drown or puke," Harper said. I didn't believe her for a second, not with her eyes screaming fun osmosis setup. "Shocker, you might actually smile. And, with all this festering beach hatred, I bet you haven't thought about… you know." Yes, I knew. Painfully, I knew. Even an indirect reminder was a dull stab in my chest. The panic that vaulted me upright at two a.m. raised the hairs on the back of my neck and forearms. It shortened my breath, and I closed my eyes to calm down the frenetic beats pounding in my ears.